


Falling in Love Montage

by dwarvenkin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ace Cullen, Asexual Cullen, F/M, Fluff, In-game Dialogue, Romance, from hate to love relationship, hetero-romantic ace Cullen tbh but damn that's so long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6323770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarvenkin/pseuds/dwarvenkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's exactly what the title suggests - several drabbles put together to show how Rania Trevelyan, an overbearing healer, and Cullen, an ex-templar, went from wishing the other was mauled by nugs to tolerating one another and so on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling in Love Montage

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! There are not as many triggers in this story as there are in my other ones, but here they are: PDA, blood, and very miner depictions of gore. I hope to add more drabbles some day, but there are so many other things I want to write and edit, it might take time to update. Enjoy! :)

Cullen was used to the way mages looked at him.

He was used to the snide remarks, the bowed heads, and the noses pointed so high to the ceiling it was a wonder the mages knew where they were going at all. But it didn’t take him long to learn how to pick out the mages who despised him as they never truly tried to hide their feelings. All day, he had stood in the halls of the Ferelden Circle or in the gallows of Kirkwall and seen the same look Rania Trevelyan was giving him now.

There was no denying the sick fury behind her brown eyes.

She must have known he was once a templar; otherwise, she wouldn’t be looking at him as though she wished he were on fire. Who told her, Cullen hadn’t a clue. His best guess was Leliana, knowing her sympathies lay with the mages, but if it had been her, why hadn’t she emphasized that he was no longer with the Order?

_It doesn’t matter,_ he thought. _As long as we’re on the same side, there is no need for her to like me._

“May I present Commander Cullen,” Cassandra introduced. “Leader of the Inquisition’s forces.”

“Such as they are,” he said. “We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.”

It must have been his imagination, but he could have sworn the flame in her eyesweakened for a moment.

“This is Lady Josephine Montilyet,” the Seeker continued, “our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

“I’ve heard much,” said Josephine, not without a courteous smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Cassandra then inclined her head to the spymaster. “And of course you know Sister Leliana.”

“My position here involves a degree of--”

“She is our spymaster,” Cassandra interrupted shortly.

Leliana gave her a pointed look. “Yes... Tactfully put, Cassandra.”

“I assume this mark has something to do with why I’m here,” said Trevelyan at last. She raised her hand level with their eyes, and Cullen saw the mark glow a sickly green over her brown, plump fingers. It swirled against her skin like water, and where he thought there would be a wound, there was nothing but a smooth palm.

“Yes,” said Cassandra, “I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good.”

“Which means we much approach the rebel mages for help,” said Leliana.

“I still disagree,” said Cullen as he rested his hands on the pummel of his sword. “The templars could serve just as well.”

Trevelyan barked out a laugh. “And what would they plan to do? Put the Breach in chains and drag it to the Circle?” She leaned over the map on the table, her palms flat against the Frostback Mountains and Frozen Seas. “As Cassandra said, what the mark needs is more power. Enough magic poured into this mark --”

“Might destroy us all!” said Cullen, frustrated. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so--”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana cut in. 

Her calmness irritated him further, but he took a deep breath through his nose and said, “I was a templar. I know what they’re capable of.”

“So do I,” Trevelyan hissed.

Cullen looked down at her and frowned. Her eyes were blazing with a rage that reminded him of the explosion in Kirkwall. If Cullen was kindling, then she was fire, and she wanted nothing more than to burn him.

“This is not mages versus templars! This is _us_ versus the _Breach_!”

Trevelyan straightened up and crossed her arms tight over her chest. “You could have fooled me. I see no vote of confidence in the mages.”

“I am sure the rebel mages are powerful, but they are in danger of being possessed by demons, whereas templars --”

“Can also be possessed, Commander. I wonder what you would do when rage demons come out of the rift and start whispering in the ears of your templars the one thing that makes them angry -- me, a free _mage_ , apart of a group who opposes the Chantry. Are you prepared to fight hundreds of your own men?”

“They are not _my_ men. Not anymore,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He was quite done with being interrupted.

“You may not wear the armor anymore, but you might as well tattoo that flaming sword to your forehead.”

It felt as though a white-hot ball exploded in the pit of his stomach. He curled a fist around the pummel of his sword. “I assure you that I am not here as a templar, but as an adviser and the commander of the Inquisition’s army. I have no interest in forcing you back into the Circle.”

“Luckily for me, there _are_ no more Circles.”

“Unfortunately,” said Lady Montilyet a little more loudly, for Cullen had every intention to press on, “neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and you” -- she pointed to Trevelyan with her quill -- “specifically.”

“Well, that didn’t take long,” said Trevelyan, her knuckles growing whiter as she clutched the sleeves of her shirt. The news seemed to have annoyed her just as it had annoyed Cullen.

“Shouldn’t they be busy arguing about who’s to become Divine?” he spat out.

“Some are calling you -- a mage -- the Herald of Andraste,” the ambassador explained to Trevelyan. “And that frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy. And we, heretics, for harboring you.”

Cassandra made a noise from the back of her throat and shook her head. “Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt.”

“It limits our options. Approaching the mages or templars for help is currently out of the question,” said Josephine, her quill bobbing up and down as she scribbled across her parchment.

The mage put up a hand before anyone else could speak. “Wait, how exactly am I the Herald of Andraste?”

“People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing,” Cassandra said. “They have also heard of the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.”

“Even if we have tried to stop that view from spreading--” the spymaster spoke up.

“Which we have not.”

Again, Leliana narrowed her eyes at Cassandra. “The point is, everyone is talking about you.”

The Herald stood quiet for a few moments, working her fingers against the fabric of her shirt. If she hadn’t called him out in front of his colleagues, Cullen might have found some sympathy within him, but it was hard to feel compassion for someone who treated him like ashes.

“That’s... slightly unnerving,” she said, finally. “They do know I’m a mage, right?”

“It does not matter,” said Leliana. “People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign.”

“And to others, a symbol of everything that has gone wrong,” continued the ambassador.

“They aren’t more concerned about the Breach? The real threat?” asked the Herald incredulously.

This time, Cullen braved a response. “They do know it’s a threat. They just don’t think we can stop it.”

“The Chantry is telling everyone you’ll make it worse,” said Josephine, looking down her nose to her board as candle wax dripped onto her parchment. She started to scrap bits off with the tip of her quill.

“There is something you can do,” said Sister Leliana. “A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

A line appeared in the middle of Trevelyan’s brows as she frowned. “A Chantry cleric wants to speak to me? After everything you’ve told me about the Chantry and what they think of me and the Inquisition, you don’t suspect an ambush?”

“No,” Leliana answered, shaking her head. “From what I understand, she’s a reasonable sort. Perhaps she does not agree with her sisters. You will find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe.”

“Perhaps this will give you other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while you’re there,” Cullen suggested. Though he only gained a pointed look from the mage, it did not hold as much savage rage as before.

“We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you’re better suited than anyone to recruit them,” said Josephine.

The Seeker stepped forward and took in everyone in the room. “In the mean time, let’s think of other options. I won’t leave this all to the Herald.”

 

–

 

Rania Trevelyan was used to the way templars looked at her.

And why shouldn’t she be? She had grown up under the constant stares of the men and women who were supposedly in the Circle to protect her, but all she saw in those eyes, glaring at her down long or pug or hooked noses, was a cold hatred and nothing more. She had seen the looks of some of her fellow mages as they had passed through the halls, hunched over their books, glancing everywhere but towards where the templars stood still as stone. The mages had been frightened, but Rania had ignored the templars because she had not feared them. She would not give them the satisfaction.

It was ironic, in a way, how she had come to be surrounded by templars yet again. They may no longer be apart of the Order, but they could not shed their mistrust and hatred no more than she could her magic. As the days went by, she felt eyes on her everywhere she went. They followed her from the Chantry to the blacksmith, but if the templars thought she would shy away from her magic, they obviously were not very bright. Their scowls and frowns and scoffs only made Rania more stubborn and more likely to hold her staff in her hand like a jab at the very vows they had abandoned. The thought made her smile.

“Care to share your little joke?” said a rough voice.

Rania looked down and noticed Varric had fallen into step beside her. Knowing the dwarf, she had a feeling Varric would try and weasel his way into her personal life as he had successfully done before. Remembering how she had told him of the time she had accidentally mooned the First Enchanter made her blush all over again.

“What joke?” she asked as she swatted at a fly buzzing around her head. Nature had never agreed with her, which was one thing she and the dwarf had in common. But to travel to Val Royeaux meant hiking through the Storm Coasts to Jadar, where they would board a ship to cross the Waking Sea. She slapped another fly away from her ear before Varric replied.

“The joke that obviously made you smile like that.”

“I wasn’t smiling at a joke.”

“Oh? Then maybe you were just thinking about all the templars in Thedas being dipped in hot oil.”

Rania rolled her eyes. “There isn’t enough oil in the world,” she said sarcastically.

There was a moment of silence that she enjoyed before Varric said, “I knew someone like you once.”

“Yeah? What happened to them?” she asked as she accidentally kicked a pebble out in front of her. It connected with a stump and shot out towards the stretch of beach to their right.

“Blew up the Chantry.”

That gave Rania paused. She frowned and looked down at Varric, but rather than meeting her eye, he was staring at his brown leather boots, watching where he stepped. Was this a new trick to get her to confess to another embarrassing story? Was he trying to get a rise out of her? Though she, herself, was a Libertarian and had been one of the mages who had risen up in the rebellion, being compared to the man who had caused the deaths of hundreds of mages left a bitter taste in her mouth.

“So you think I’m going to blow up another Chantry?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said. “You two just share a mutual hatred of templars, is all. But see, me, I’ve known quite a few templars and mages. You got all kinds in the Hanged Man. Knew a few templars who were only looking for a job to support their family. Treated mages as fair as anyone else. Then I met mages who obsessed over bringing back the dead, kidnapped people, and... well, you get my point.”

Rania pursed her lips. “I wonder why people with no magic think their opinions about templars holds any value.”

“Everyone has a opinion about everything.” Varric readjusted Bianca on his shoulders. “But what I’m saying is everyone’s got a story. Take our friend Curly, who I know you love just has much as wyvern shit. Dedicated templar, Knight Captain, and right hand man to Meredith. And yet, when she ordered her men to kill Hawke, he stood against her and disobeyed her order. Demanded her to stand down, actually. He fought by Hawke’s side even after she sided with the mages.

“Afterwards, he made sure the mages were taken care of. Must have taken, I dunno, _months_ before the Gallows were in any condition to live in again, but until then, he and the other templars built tents, fetched fresh water, cooked. Anything to keep those mages alive.” Shrugging, Varric started to slow his pace. “Just something to think about.”

Once again, Rania was left alone with her thoughts. Varric’s footsteps had receded back with Cassandra’s and Solas’ so that all she could hear now was the muffle of crushing pebbles and the waves crashing against the shore. A light mist had dusted her hair and robes, making her shimmer like tiny diamonds, and every inch of her smelled like salt. From above, a seagull circled them, swooped down upon a massive piece of drift wood, and squawked.

Had Varric told the truth about Cullen or was that just another one of his stories? It was hard to tell when the dwarf was lying. It had been a lesson nonetheless, that much Rania knew. She resisted the urge to watch Varric’s expression from over her shoulder, but she had a feeling he was genuinely concerned about her. He had, after all, compared her to the man who had started a war.

Still, Rania had her doubts about Cullen, and she held on to those doubts well after she left Val Royeaux, all the way back across the Waking Sea, through the Storm Coasts and the Frostback Mountains, until she arrived at the doors of the Haven Chantry. There, an angry crowd gathered, shouting above one another to be heard, and to her surprise, Cullen was in the middle, shoving a templar aside to keep him from drawing his sword on a mage.

“ _Enough!_ ” the commander cried.

The templar stumbled backwards, more startled than angry. “Knight-Captain.”

Cullen rounded on him. “That is _not_ my title. We are _not_ templars any longer. We are _all_ part of the Inquisition.”

Rania’s mouth fell open. _Oh._

 

–

 

Cullen always found her by the healing tents. And today was no different. There she was, in between filled cots as she squeezed past surgeons, shouting orders around while healers scattered. Trevelyan seemed to have made herself the unofficial head of the Inquisition healers while she wasn’t out gaining support from Ferelden and Orlais or recruiting agents for their cause. Not that he minded, of course. While she was yelling at surgeons, it only meant that she wasn’t yelling at him. But now that he thought back on the matter, Trevelyan hadn’t spoken to him at all since her trip back from Val Royeaux, nor did he feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.

Though he supposed he’d take indifference over hostility any day.

As he inched closer to the tents, Cullen noticed, to his surprise, several cots occupied by templars. One held a bandaged hand to her face as blood oozed through her fingertips. Another lied still on his back, fast asleep, while healers wrapped a stint around his leg. And on the edge of the commotion, he found Trevelyan again, stitching up the hand of a templar he had known back in Kirkwall. Intrigued, Cullen stood back and watched.

The Herald held the templar’s hand in her lap as she slid a needle through a gash in his palm. He flinched back, hissing.

“Oh hush,” Trevelyan scolded, pushing the needle through his skin again, “I’m sure you’ve had paper cuts hurt more than this.”

The templar scowled but pressed his lips into a thin line. With practiced ease, Trevelyan threaded the wound together, tied the end into a neat knot, and snipped the leftover thread with a pair of scissors. When she was finished, she put aside her instruments and peeled off her gloves. Instantly, a bright blue layer of magic coated her hands like a second skin, but as she made to pass it over the templar’s wounds, he pulled away and held his injured hand to his chest.

“If I don’t use magic, you’ll be in pain,” Rania huffed.

“You have a poultice. I know you do,” said the templar, shaking his head.

“Yes, but the poultice will take longer to make. Magic is faster.”

His eyes widened and he spoke in a whisper. “... _Please_.”

Trevelyan stared at him with pursed lips, then sighed. “Fine. All right. Bill.” A tall, gangly man with greying flyaway hair slipped away from his table overloaded with bedrolls and stood at attention at the Herald’s side. “Get me a bag of elfroot and two buds of crystal grace.” The mage nodded and swiftly left the tents.

Lady Trevelyan lifted herself from her stool after patting the templar’s knee and pulled her gloves back over her fingers. Beneath the canopies, behind the tables littered with herbs and jars of leeches and crates of wine, and between the cots and bedrolls of injured soldiers and scouts, she looked right at home. Cullen was impressed by how well she maneuvered around the healers and surgeons as though she had always worked here. She held herself with an air of assertiveness, confident as she moved about like water. Everyone seemed to work around her, maybe out of respect... but most likely out of fear.

A tiny ginger elf, hands busy with tipping a glass of water to a scout’s lips, called for more thread from the supply tent. Trevelyan called back with a nod, but for some reason, she was hurrying towards him instead. Cullen looked up at the tent he was standing near and read the sign on top of the opening.

_Supplies_.

But it was too late. Before he could even turn around, the Herald passed him by with not so much as a glance his way. A box of thread sat between them on a long table of glass vials, canteens, pitchers of water, and clean rags. She plucked two spindles from the batch.

Cullen thought she didn’t notice him, until she looked up and asked, “Can I help you?”

She had said it so quickly, he almost forgot to answer. “Y-yes. I mean no! I’m not... injured.”

“Are you sure?” she said, narrowing her eyes. “We could have your head checked.”

Cullen flushed. “No. My head is perfectly fine.”

Trevelyan shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it. If you’re not sick, what are you doing here? Does Leliana need me? Cassandra? Ugh, not Josephine with more questions about my family.”

Cullen looked around for a reasonable answer. What _was_ he doing here? Spying on the Herald like a paranoid little boy? He imagined himself a pile of ashes if he told Trevelyan the truth. From somewhere among the crowd of healers and surgeons, a woman groaned, snapping him back to where he was -- the mass of injured soldiers. “What happened?” he blurted out.

Trevelyan did not pretend to misunderstand. “A mob of rebel mages on the outskirts of the Hinterlands. Really, am I needed anywhere?”

“No. Wait.” He startled even himself when he reached out and grabbed at the Herald’s elbow before she could leave. The fire returned to her eyes and her lip curled, but it was gone the second he dropped her arm.

“What is it?” she sighed, placing her fists on her hips.

“That man you were healing. He’s a templar. Well, he _was_ a templar.”

“And?”

Cullen felt as though she had slapped him in the face. “‘ _And?_ ’ You’ve done nothing but insult me since we’ve met because I was a templar. I’ve half a mind to think you’d wish me dead!”

“Don’t be an idiot. If I wanted to harm you, I’d have already turned you into a toad.”

Horrified at the idea of being touched by magic, he continued, “A _toad_? Herald --”

“I am a healer before I am the Herald, a title, which I should remind you, I have denounced. I am no more Andraste’s Herald than you are the Queen of Antiva. When someone is injured or sick, they are no longer a templar or a mage, but my patient. No matter my feelings about the Order, I will _never_ let someone suffer. Even a templar.”

She pushed passed him, leaving him open-mouthed and a lost for words. Somewhere, deep inside his heart, something tugged to make it beat a little faster.

 

–

 

It took months to admit to herself that Cullen was not like most templars. _Ex-templar_ , he liked to remind her. In the Owstwick Circle, men and women of the Order were quite different. Rude, stubborn, and abusive, they had worn the flaming sword upon their breast with the kind of pride the Chantry spoke against. A handful had been just cruel. They had denied mages meals, tossed some in the dungeon without cause, stepped on the backs of their robes just to laugh when the mage tumbled over. It had been funnier when the mage had an armful of books and pamphlets. Watching stacks of papers spill across the floor had sent the templars into hysterics. But to them, what had been funniest of all, was when the mage was Tranquil.

Cullen may be stubborn, but so was she. She had watched his kindness as he brought injured soldiers to her healers. She had listened to him hum under his breath when he thought no one was listening. His smile was rare, but she found herself savoring the moments when laughed and wanting him to do it more often. No, Cullen was not like most templars. If he had been, Rania would not be falling for him at all.

Outside, snow rained down like sheets, stealing all color away from the world. The sun had shied away behind the monstrous grey clouds. Tents had frozen over. Gusts of wind bit at your bones and chapped your lips if you were brave enough to step out from the shelter of the Chantry. It was the sort of winter Rania would never like to experience again.

Knots of villagers and pilgrims huddled by the cluster of candles scattered about. Their breathes came white and hot as they shivered to stay warm. The wooden torches above them helped little to fight back the bitter air, as frost seeped into the stone and coated the iron chandeliers, decorating them with icicles. And even though the hall was crowded with people trying to stay alive, a numbing silence hung over them all.

Rania was no different.

She hated the cold. Bundled in her cloak near a lit torch, she nuzzled into the soft fennec fur of her hood. She thought of the blistering heat of the western deserts, how the fire she called from the Fade filled her with a cozy warmth, and every time she treated herself to a glass of chasind sack mead. A fierce shiver ran down her spine, which made her purse her lips and sigh.

From the corner of her eye, a shadow shifted in and out of the fire light. Whispers carried over the stillness but it was the clank of armor that caught her attention. Cullen moved around the refugees with a tower of blankets and torn tarps in his arms. Men and women took the blankets thankfully and bundled themselves up, but there was not enough, and some had to share.

Rania caught Cullen by the elbow as he passed her. “Where did you find the blankets?” she whispered, as though disturbing the silence might cause the roof to cave in.

“Leliana has her scouts searching for some around Haven,” he whispered back.

He looked down at his arm, and she let go, feeling a blush color her ears.

“They could die in this weather,” she said with a frown.

“It’s a possibility, unfortunately,” he sighed. “But the Inquisition needs to stay in control. If the people see us waver, they will as well.”

Cullen was right, of course. What was war without sacrifices? The Inquisition needed to show everyone that they were capable no matter what was thrown at them. She looked over a group of women bunched together under one blanket. The one in the middle wore a wedding band.

_As long as they survive._

“Are you all right?” Cullen asked, so softly Rania almost didn’t hear. The concern, right there in the middle of his brow, was unmistakable. Her heart pounded.

She cleared her throat. “Of course. I just... _really_ hate the cold. Do you? I mean, hate the cold? You mustn’t if you’re walking around in full armor.”

Cullen leaned against the wooden beam, right beneath the torch. The concern on his face was replaced by a shy smile. “You forget that I grew up in Ferelden. But I know how you feel... I could really go for some warm stew.”

“Mmmm,” she said wistfully. “With pork and squash.”

“And mushrooms.”

“And potatoes.”

“And chestnuts.” When Rania arched her brow, he added, “The templars in the Ferelden Circle used to add them to their stews. I’ve... gotten rather used to it.”

Rania chuckled. “Ah, the moment is ruined.”

But instead of scowling or stomping away, Cullen tilted his head down to hide his grin. “Ah, yes, templars. What pricks.”

 

–

 

He cried out in pain when the practice sword came down hard on his wrist. He should not have pushed himself today, not with this damn headache thudding against the back of his head. But when one of his recruits asked him for more practice lessons, he couldn’t say no. Especially when she was so adamant about becoming better with a sword. Cullen dropped his weapon to the ground and took off his glove. The joint had already begun to swell and turn a deep purple.

The recruit followed him from the training yard to the healers’ tents, sputtering out apologies, _Oh my_ ’s, and pleads all the way there. Cullen had told her to keep practicing, but she had shaken her head and insisted that she come along, and he couldn’t have thought up a good enough lie to get her to leave him alone. He wasn’t angry, just... frustrated. He should have seen that move; it had been so predictable. Every part of that girl’s body had screamed out what she intended to do with that sword. And now, because he was stupid enough to ignore his throbbing headache, he was standing at the edge of the infirmary, cradling his swollen wrist.

When Lady Trevelyan emerged from the throng of healers and surgeons, Cullen was surprised by how relieved he felt.

“Let’s see what we have,” she said as she pulled him down into a stool. She unbuckled his vambrace with ease and placed it upon his lap, then turned his wrist over to press her thumbs against his palm. Each time she inched further up his hand, closer to his wrist, pain shot through his arm like a hot wire, but each time, he bit down a groan.

“Oh, don’t act like a tough man. That just makes my job harder,” she scolded. When she poked at a small bump down his thumb, Cullen pulled back and hissed. “Ahh, there we are. It’s just a small fracture.”

“Oh? Is that all?” he said lightly. Something about the way she smiled made his stomach flip over.

“Meira,” Lady Trevelyan called. A tiny ginger elf appeared at her side. Her freckled face looked more tan than pink. “Do you have any clean rolls of bandages?”

The elf reached into one of the many pouches wrapped around her thin waist, produced several strips of cloth, and dropped them in Trevelyan’s opened palm.

“I’m starting to think those pouches are enchanted,” Rania teased, letting the bandages fall into her lap. “You always have just what I need.”

Meira looked at Cullen with caution, then back at Trevelyan. “Don’t be silly.”

It looked to be a slow day for the healers. No one was lying in the bedrolls; only several cots were occupied by groaning scouts. Whatever they had stumbled upon left them with enormous welts on their faces and hands, oozing thick yellow puss. A scout with a shock of black hair had red, swollen eyes with tears spilling down his cheeks and into his ears. But as the healers swabbed their wounds with a sticky brown poultice, they did not seemed worried at all, so Cullen only assumed Leliana’s scouts would live.

“You have an admirer, Commander,” said Trevelyan while she rubbed a smooth, green mixture into his wrist. It smelled refreshing, like elfroot, and made his skin tingle.

“I should have known when she asked for a private lesson,” Cullen muttered, sneaking a quick glance over his shoulder.

Lady Trevelyan barked out a laugh. “Oldest line in the book.”

“I... confess, I thought she was sincere. She was certainly enthusiastic about improving her sword arm, which is more than I can say about the rest of my soldiers. They _know_ what’s at stake, what the Inquisition is up against, and yet some of them would rather -- ” He blinked, as if suddenly remembering where he was and who he was talking to. “Forgive me, I doubt this is something you want to hear.”

“That is exactly the sort of thing I want to hear,” she murmured. Wisps of grey hair brushed against her cheeks, her blunt bangs cast a shadow over her eyes, and Cullen was suddenly aware of the weight of her hand in his. “You have no idea... the horrors I saw in the future. It felt like... every cheerful thought you’ve ever had, had been wiped away.”

He was all too familiar with that feeling. Memories of demons rushed back like a flood. His headache pounded from behind his eyes, but he ignore it and placed his other hand on top of hers. Often, when he could not sleep because of the vivid nightmares, when he awoke with his hair and clothes sticking to his skin with sweat, he would get dressed and walk along the boundary of Haven. Something about the crisp winter air filling his lungs brought him back from the world of nightmares. He would listen to the snow crunch beneath his boots, smell the sharp pine needles above him, and feel solid and whole. Present. Looking at Lady Trevelyan now, he wondered if she would ever agree to walk with him one night. To escape the world of nightmares with him.

“Anyway,” she spoke up, looking at him with a strained smile. “Tell your soldiers to shape up, or they’ll have to answer to me.”

“You would not want that,” said a passing mage.

Instead of shouting back, she laughed. “See? I’ve made my reputation. I’d rather be known as aggressive because submission never wins wars, now does it?”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” said Cullen.

Her hand lingered in his for a second before she drew away. She pulled the bandages from her lap, wrapped them around his wrist, and secured the end with a knot. “Now, I don’t want to see anymore swordplay from you for a week, understood? Good. If I see you pick up _one_ sword, you’ll know exactly what these healers go through daily.”

“She’s not kidding,” said the same mage, passing behind Trevelyan again.

“I’m not. No practice. No private lessons.”

As soon as she peeked over Cullen’s shoulder, he immediately understood and smiled.

“If it starts giving you trouble again, come find me. If I’m here, of course. If not, find Meira. She’s the -- ”

“Y-Yes, the elf with the red hair. And pouches.”

“Right, and if you need more poultice or fresh bandages, come -- ”

“Find you. Or-or Meira, yes. I know.”

“Right.”

There was no blazing fire behind her eyes as she looked at him, but there was a warmth in them that reminded him of freshly baked biscuits and shepherd's pie. The connection was lost when someone called for her.

“Oh my way!” she called back. “Take care, Commander.”

Holding his wrist, he watched her move through cots and tables and crates with ease. A lump lodged itself in his throat that he couldn’t swallow around. “Right... take care.”

 

–

The wind snatched her breath away with each violent gust. It tugged at her cloak, choking her. Her hair was caked with ice and her eyebrows froze over. Every time she blinked she felt the sharp ice crystals coating her eyelashes stab her eyes. Each step sent a flash of pain through her legs. Each breath left her lungs burning. She was too weak to touch the Fade and bring her warmth; her staff was long lost, buried miles deep into the mountain side. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. But she didn’t. She kept moving, following the faint light in the distance.

It had to be them. It had to be the Inquisition.

_Andraste, if you’re real, if I’m your Herald, please… save me. I am no use to you dead._

A bed of gray embers laid before her, swirling in the wind. Rania bent from the waist and stretched out a hand. Warm. Recent? Maker, she hoped so. She didn’t know how much longer she could take. The snow was soft, too loose to hold her weight. It collapsed around her feet with each step. Her knees felt as though they were filled with acid. The threat of tears prickled the back of her eyes, but she would not let them fall. She will survive.

Life was not so cruel as to give her freedom only to snatch it away with death.

Two rocky cliffs towered above her; a natural path carved out between them like an enormous doorway. Down below in the swoop of a valley, brown tents stood in haphazard lines. Lights shown bright against the pure white snow. Fire. Fire meant people and shelter. She wanted to burst with joy, but instead, she crumpled under the weight of her exhaustion, landing hard on her knees. She cried out in pain, then blacked out.

The last thing she heard was a hushed voice near her ear. 

“Maker, let her live.”


End file.
